


Just the Tip

by ossseous (ozean)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Blasphemy, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Guilt, Sexual Coercion, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: Give an inch, he'll take a mile.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Kinda based on this prompt i saw and couldn't get out of my head.](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1184.html?thread=1274528#cmt1274528)
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> I think it is technically dub-con because he does consent but he doesn't explicitly agree to the well... degree... things are taken. But personally as far as I'm concerned, rape is rape, so I tagged it as non-con for those who feel the same.
> 
> Also holy shit there were a ton of mistakes, I've fixed what I could find, please let me know if I missed something.

“Just the tip,” he says.

Fingers press down his back, along his spine. They pull and tug his skin and a breath fans out along his shoulder blade as those fingers trail even lower. They shake. In fear, he wonders. No, not fear. Its tension. Drawn sharp and threatening to snap. Like a cello string or his sisters’ hair ties or the clothesline once they take the last sheet down on warm summer days. It’s the desire to do more, held back, kept in check. A desire to pull something from him, something he doesn’t want to give.

Credence groans, shifts his hips, still too hard from the lips that had engulfed him not moments before. Made harder still by the cock that ruts against him. He’d been unceremoniously flipped over, given scarcely more than a second to reorient—to understand what was happening.

But once he does, once he feels the way Graves slips so well, so easily between his cheeks with slow, measured thrusts that shove him onto his elbows, he has to hide his face. He buries it in the pillow, an old thing ripe with the sharp tang of mildew. It’s better than having to face it, easier to pretend that _this_ wasn’t _that_.

Graves doesn’t fit quite well against his body. Maybe he’s not meant to, not when his body gets forced down flat to the bed, a knee pressing too hard into the inside of his thigh. Its hard enough to push it out too much, make his tendons stretch, a pain screaming for mercy he won’t ever, ever get.

Those fingers do not wait for him, lost in his thoughts as he is. They rake into his skin, pausing at his lower back. A little tease, thumb dipping down, easing into his cleft, the pad pressing against his hole. His breath stutters out and he finally relents.

“Just the tip,” he agrees.

Graves doesn’t sound happy or glad or relieved or anything. Just a full weight of silence behind him. It’s a heavier weight than Graves, straddling his other leg. Heavier than the crucifix hanging on the wall, the one that has fallen more times than any of them can count, heavier than the breath that pushes its way out of him when that cruel hand almost retreats. Like some kind of threat, the pressure eases until skin is barely touching skin, only hovering enough to brush, light and teasing, across the soft hair that dusts across his ass.

Perhaps he knew all along that Credence would relent. He wonders if Graves wanted him to put up more of a fight. Struggle against this silent thing he wants and will never willingly allow himself to have.

Weight returns to the touch and the fingers descend, pushing hard at the skin of his ass to spread him—bare him, reveal every inch of him.

And something drips. He doesn’t get what it is at first, a cold feeling that has him jerk a little, as though he could get away from it. But it’s the smell that hits him—that heady aroma of saliva as fingers massage it roughly into his skin, each pass pushing harder and harder, threatening to breach.

“Just the tip,” he says once more. His voice is almost too small, quiet as Graves settles behind him, kneeing his legs together. All Credence can do is ready himself, brace his fingers tight into the sheets.

“You won’t even feel it,” Graves whispers back, so close to his ear that wet lips brush against the shell and puffs of warm little breaths spread out against his cheek.

He makes a mistake as Graves mounts him, the head of his cock nudging along his cleft in slow, tormenting strokes before finally pushing a little deeper. A touch that promises so much more. He glances up.

It isn’t that he had forgotten about it. No, that ever persistent presence never disappears, not from his thoughts, not from that prickle of apprehension that looms over his shoulder every second of the day.

But it was like that feeling, for a moment at least, got drowned out, lost beneath the cacophony of sensations as Graves somehow pushed his way through. But as his eyes wander, slipping across the cracked walls and one single beam of sunlight that manages to get through the rafters, he settles his gaze upon the crucifix.

It’s nothing too big, not wholly imposing like some of the crucifixes he’s seen in churches. But the figure of Christ, with his slumped, bowed head, seems to fix his eyes upon him.

Credence stares back, caught in that heavy gaze. He wants nothing more than to look away, to close his eyes, do something other than look into the eyes of his Lord and savior as Graves finally enters him.

And oh, he feels it. The stretch and pull and discomforting burn as he attempts to think of it as something other than a complete invasion of him, his body, his soul. He tries to suck in air as Graves groans a pleased little noise behind him. A sound that jolts through him, whispers proof that he is doing something right for a change.

A hand shoves into that stiff, uncomfortable mattress right next to his head. The same mattress he has to sleep in every night, stench strong with his own night sweats and stifled, messy sobs that build and build after Modesty and Chasity have long since fallen asleep each night. Graves scrunches the sheets tight, and whispers, “So, so tight.”

The spell ruptures, cracking apart at the sound of a grunt right behind him. Finally, he can drop his head down, shove his face into the pillow where it is safe to gasp and gasp with each and every little thrust Graves pushes into him. He tries to relax, tries not to think of that judging gaze fixing him to the bed, fixing him into that spot where he relents himself whole to another person.

He jumps a little, a curl of arousal licking up from somewhere deep inside him, ready to swallow him whole. He lifts his arms, clasps them above his head. To pray to Christ for forgiveness? Or to pray to Graves, to beg him to relent? 

But he feels Graves sink only deeper, feels the push as Graves nudges further and further into him. This isn’t want he expected, wasn’t what they agreed. He scrambles, hands shooting back to… do what? Push him away? A nasty little voice deep in his thoughts dares its own suggestion, chuckling at the idea that he might want to pull him closer, suck Graves in even deeper.

All he can do his grip back blindly, snatching a handful of fabric—his shirt he realizes—and twist it in his fist. Part of him expects it to be batted away, pulled up with a brutal hand, pushed back up above his head. But Graves leaves it as he finally bottoms out, dropping down to press along his back, his bare skin, soaked with sweat, sticking to Graves’s own clothes.

He doesn’t have time to fret over the fact that he is soiling Graves’s fine clothes, not when Graves moves. It’s a slow, languorous slide of hips against him that rocks him hard into the bed. The scrape of the bed’s feet across those wooden floors bores into his ears, only diminished a little by each grunt that crawls up from his chest.

That feeling, that terrible horrible thing deep inside him returns with each slide of his cock against the damp mattress, the head bunching into the sheets, the fabric rough when dry, and even rougher still when wet. Soaking through with each biting little gush of precome that slips out of him.

The drag of Graves’s cock hurts, but it doesn’t hurt enough. He really does wish it hurt more, enough to ease away that fog of _want_ and _need_ and _please please please don’t ever stop_ that keeps simmering, renewed with every sob of pleasure that Graves wrings out of him.

An arm circles around his neck then, surprising him as that easy darkness, the halo of safety he found in the pillow gets diminished by a flood of light. It pinches at his Adam’s apple, a right proper chokehold if he’s ever seen one. And he’s seen many, long ago bestowed upon him by schoolyard bullies and given still by alleyway thugs, sneering folk who smack his fliers into the inky black puddles at his feet. They always relent, but only after he begs them to stop, cheeks wet with tears and humiliation.

He almost welcomes it then, hopes that little bit of pain will resurface, drag him back from that spiraling, prickling pleasure that echoes through each nerve ending.

But it’s not enough either. It tugs him, an almost painful curve of his spine that has him pulled upright. Enough to see that crucifix once more.

He wonders if Graves knows, if he is doing it to be that vicious man he sees lurking underneath those caring, careful touches he gets outside in the bright light of day.

He clutches at the arm, gripping it tight as thrust after thrust pushes him into that hard, painful clutch even more. One particularly hard thrust that Graves grinds into him leaves his vision blackening at the edges and for a brief, splendid moment he thinks he might pass out. But it abates back into a blinding clarity as Graves pulls back once more.

The arm disappears as quickly as it had slithered its way around his neck and he drops back to the bed. Graves rocks into him, the right pace, the right pressure until he sits back up. The hand that pushes into his lower back is heavy, unforgiving.

And then, without warning or reason, Graves pulls out.

For the first time, he dares a glance back over his shoulder. Graves looks only half undone, still dressed but for where his trousers have been pulled open. His fist takes a hurried, punishing grip on his own cock as he pries Credence’s legs open. At least, as open as he can get them between the confines of his own knees, thumb digging into the flesh of his upper thigh.

He feels it first, realizes what it is second. He jumps as Graves comes across his lower back, aiming the second jolt right above his hole. Graves’s chest expands as he gulps in greedy breaths, shoulders rising and falling, tension slipping out of them. He can’t keep his eyes from wandering up, seeking out, wanting to know what kind of expression a man like Graves can make in such a terrible, vulnerable moment.

But he finds Graves staring right back. His eyes dark, nothing more than passive, indifferent as he glances down and smears the head of his cock in his own come and slowly—agonizingly slowly—pushes it all into Credence.

“You want to come too?”

He turns away, casts his eyes to the bed, forces himself not to move, not to even breathe.

“Do you want to come, Credence?”

Biting his lip, he nods.

“Say it.”

That’s too much. Too far. His eyes itch to dart up, look back at the far wall, in search of permission, or in some ridiculous hope that the crucifix was gone, fallen once more, no longer there to pass judgement upon him.

“I want to come,” he whispers, punched out of him.

“Then come.”

He doesn’t move, not at first. For the most part it is because he doesn’t know what Graves means. Instead he waits for Graves to pull out once more. He doesn’t. He stays still, looming over his back, and Credence knows he is watching him. Waiting for him. Credence slips a tentative hand low, wedging it between his stomach and the mattress to get to his cock.

“Ah ah—”

He jerks his hand away, body freezing, a little too scared to move. But then shame creeps over him, leeching from the realization of what Graves wants from him.

He braces his elbows on the bed and shifts his hips, shutting his eyes against the drag of his cock against the sheet. It’s even rougher than before and much more sensitive as he ruts. A hand trails up his back, thumb pressing along the notches of his spine, cupping his shoulder blade, almost gentle, almost caring.

That nearly gentle touch is too much. By the time his ruts become a mindless grinding, punctuation by his own breathless groans, he is so close.

“I said come.”

The hand lifts from his back and comes back down in a sharp slap across his ass. No warning, no indication, nothing. He takes a moment, sifting through the shock to understand what happened. He almost doesn’t feel it, but gradually the pain fades in. His doesn’t get long to dwell, his thoughts cut off when that hand comes down once more across the other cheek.

He gasps against the surprise and his own anger as he comes, emptying against his own wishes, sobs wrench out of him, shivers racking through him. Each overwhelming pulse of come he spends in the sheet, wet against his skin, becomes the smearing, pungent proof of his indignity.

The world stills for a second. Graves slips back out of him, pulls away from him, his body becoming just another distant thing. Credence turns his head to the side as every muscle in his body relaxes. He didn’t even know they had gotten that tense.

He expects Graves to leave then, tidy up, make some half-baked excuses he doesn’t care if Credence believes. He doesn’t expect the hand that rakes through his hair, fingernails scratching across his scalp. It’s not painful, he thinks. But more like the way he scratches the ears of stray dogs that like to follow him through the streets.

“You did a good job, Credence.” They are only words, whispered once more into his ear. He shuts his eyes, tries to push back against that swollen lump of pride that threatens to fill him. He fights the twitch of a smile. “Such a good boy.”

And without another word, Graves leaves, steps heavy across a creaking floor, letting the door downstairs slam shut without a care.

He can’t stay like this, he thinks, and with numb arms he pushes up from the mattress. He refuses to dwell about what he should do with his mess of a sheet and tries not to wonder when he will next see Mr. Graves. All he lets himself do is stumble to the washroom—eyes cast down, safely away from that far wall—to clean the mess from his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm going to hell I'm The Worst. Also this is unbetaed so its even worse I can't believe I'm going to hell over unbetaed fic.
> 
> Tbh I feel like this just goes with the headcanon I personally like that Graves was an agent of Grindelwald's and was grooming Credence to help him find the Obscurus long before Grindelwald arrived in America, but still at Grindelwald's behest? I like to think they had a very complicated relationship, particularly on Graves's end. Maybe Graves has his own kind of loathing for no-majs and kind of hates himself for being so drawn to Credence, who he thinks is just a squib. BUT it's not restricted to that, its just a PWP lmao.
> 
> Anyways, I'm on [tumblr.](http://ossseous.tumblr.com)


End file.
